“How did he pay?”
“What do you mean, ‘How did he pay?’ ”
“By check? Cash?”
“Monthly account by check,” said Valerie Meiring.
“What the hell does that have to do with it?” her husband asked.
He kept his voice neutral. “There may have been American dollars in the safe.”
“How about that,” said Meiring.
“Were his payments up to date? Regular?”
“Always,” said Valerie. “If only everyone paid like that.”
Van Heerden sighed. “Thank you,” he said, and walked to the door.
¦
He stood in the inquiry line for a long time at the Home Affairs office in Bellville until his turn came and the colored woman looked up tiredly to listen to his question. He told her he was from a firm of attorneys, Beneke, Olivier, and Partners. He urgently needed a full birth certificate for Johannes Jacobus Smit, identity number…
“You must pay thirty rand at counter C, sir, and fill in the form. It’ll take six to eight weeks for Pretoria to process the form.”
“I don’t have six weeks. The Master of the Supreme Court meets in six days to decide about Smit’s will.”
“Special cases are on the second floor, sir. They must make representations if you want it more quickly. Room 209.”
“But it can be done?”
“If it’s a special case.”
“Thank you.”
He completed the form, stood in the queue at counter C for forty-five minutes, paid the thirty rand, and walked up the stairs to the second floor with the form and the receipt. A black man sat behind the desk of room 209. His desk was stacked with folders in neat piles.
“Can I help?” Hoping that the answer would be in the negative.
He told the story.
“Mmm,” said the man.
Van Heerden waited.
“Pretoria is very busy,” the man said.
“This is an emergency,” said Van Heerden.
“There are many emergencies,” said the man.
“Is there anything I can do? Someone I can telephone?”
“No. Only me.”
“How long will it take?”
“A week. Ten days.”
“I don’t have that long.”
“Generally, sir, it takes six to eight weeks…”
“I heard that. Downstairs.”
Then the man gave a deep sigh. “It would help if you got a court order. Or a judicial inquiry.”
“Then how long would it take?”
“A day. Even less. Pretoria takes court orders very seriously.”
“Oh.”
The man sighed again. “Give me the details in the meantime. I’ll see what I can do.”
¦
Hope Beneke wasn’t in her office.
“She’s at a business lunch,” the receptionist said.
“Where?” he asked.
“I don’t think she’ll want to be disturbed, sir.”
He looked at the beautifully groomed middle-aged woman. “I’m Van Heerden.”
No reaction.
“When she comes back, tell her I was here. Tell her I wanted to see her urgently about the Smit case, for which we have only six days left, but you wouldn’t tell me where she was. Tell her I’m having lunch and I don’t know when I’ll be back, but if her employees want to piss away the Smit case, I’ll add my little stream gladly.”
The woman slowly drew a diary toward her. “She’s in the Long Street Cafe.”
He walked out. It was raining. He swore softly. There wouldn’t be any parking on Long Street. Sooner or later he would have to buy an umbrella.
¦
“Table for one?” the woman asked when he walked in.
“No,” he said, and cast his eyes over the crowd looking for Hope Beneke. He saw her sitting at the back, against the wall, and went forward, his wet shoes leaving a trail on the floor. She was with another woman, both leaning forward, heads together, deep in conversation.
“Hope.”
She looked up, disturbed, her eyes widening slightly. “Van Heerden?”
“We must get a court order.”
“I…” she said. “You…” She looked at the woman opposite her. Van Heerden looked at her. She was stunningly beautiful. “This is Kara-An Rousseau. She’s a client.”
“Hallo,” said the woman, extending a slender hand.
“Van Heerden,” he said, and shook her hand but turned to Hope Beneke. “You’ll have to come back to the office. I need the information for Home Affairs and it takes six to eight weeks…”
She looked at him and he saw the sickle moons rising, slowly turning red.
“Excuse me for a moment, Kara-An,” Hope said, and got up. She walked to the door, then out onto the sidewalk. He followed her, his temper filling him, making him light-headed.
“Who told you I was here?”
“Does it matter?”
“Do you know who Kara-An Rousseau is?”
“I don’t care who she is. I have six days left in which to save your client’s inheritance.”
“She heads the Corporate Social Involvement Trust of Nasionale Pers. And I won’t allow you to speak to me like that.”
“You’re probably seeing the rands from NasPers rolling in, Hope. Do you recall someone named Wilna van As?”
“No,” said Hope Beneke, the sickle moons now glowing like stoplights. “You have no right to insinuate that I regard the one as more important than the other. Wilna van As isn’t my only client.”
“She’s
“No, Van Heerden, I’m your only client. And I’m not a very happy one at this moment.”
He couldn’t suppress it any longer. “I don’t care.” He turned and walked into Long Street’s rain. He stopped in the middle of the street and looked back. “Find someone else to fuck around.”
And then, as an afterthought: “And what kind of horseshit name is Kara-An, anyway?” He walked the two blocks to his car oblivious to the rain.
¦
He threw the wet clothes into the corner of the bathroom, walked naked to the bedroom. He opened the cupboard and searched angrily for a pair of jeans, shirt, and sweater. He didn’t need this, he thought, again. He’d rather go hungry. He wouldn’t be fucked around. Not by her, not by Kemp, not by a bunch of fat dentists. He didn’t need it. He didn’t care.
Who cared if there was money for fuck-all?
Who cared about anything? No one. That’s who. He didn’t, either. He was free. Free. Free of the ties that bound other people, the incessant striving after nothing, the endless accumulation of status symbols, the empty, meaningless suburban existence. He was above it all, free of the betrayals, small and large, the lying and the deception, the backstabbing, the distrust, the games.
